


We Knew We Were Chosen

by oxymoronassoc



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-22 01:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/907327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxymoronassoc/pseuds/oxymoronassoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Goldeneye reboot for the modern Bond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Knew We Were Chosen

001\. Now  
Once he was young and idealistic and foolhardy.

Now he's older, cynical, but still foolish.

M says, a note of exasperation in her voice, "You just don't know when to quit."

He thinks it's not so much a question of when, but if he can ever quit at all.

 

002\. The Past  
A long time ago, before her, before he became himself, he lost someone. It seems trite to say; everyone loses someone. Not everyone dies, but sometimes the drift of time or the bitter tang of betrayal is worse than knowing a friend is cold and rotting, six feet under. There's some comfort in that exactness. He doesn't take comfort in this particular loss. It nags at him, still. 

Double Ohs rarely go into the field together--their whole existence relies on the idea that they can work virtually alone successfully--but this mission had required two agents. That should have tipped him off. But he'd been young and foolish and stupidly enthusiastic for the job, to prove himself, to live up to the 007 name. He'd been sent with 006. 006 had been young too--younger than even he'd been--new to the field, but brilliant. Double oh sixes always seem to be brilliant. They'd had a laugh going in, two charming young men in their prime. The mission had seemed so straight forward that he'd assumed that it was 006's inexperience that had been the reason to send two agents. A quick in and out, babysitting done. 

And then it all went wrong. And there'd been nothing he could do but complete the mission alone. 

There'd been no body to bring back to MI-6. 

M had given him commendations. He remembered that much. And two weeks off, which he'd spent in his horrible little flat watching the rain pour down for five dreary days before returning, unannounced, to his office. Miss Moneypenny had merely glanced up from her computer monitor and shook her head, unsurprised.

 

003\. The Present  
He's never understood the allure of strip clubs, as a concept or a meeting place. Of course, he's never had a problem getting a pretty girl to take off her clothes and generally for free. Still, at the best of times, drunk on several bottles of champagne and with the music thumping, these sorts of places were marginally entertaining. Barely. During the day, the floors still sticky and a lingering odor of sweat and desperation in the air, it was enough to make him want to turn on his bespoke shod foot and leave. 

The lights were still dimmed, thank God. The empty room echoed with a noise Bond commonly attributed to a dying cat. As he followed the lackey in the ill-fitting suit through the main bar and into a secondary "luxury" suite, he saw the sound actually came from a drunk-looking woman whose patently fake assets wobbled precariously as she caterwauled into the karaoke machine. 

Russians, he thought. They never change. The thought would have made him smile, but he knew better. They weren't enemies now, but it'd be a stretch to call them friends.

"Ahh, James!" the portly man sprawled in the curved purple flocked velvet booth called. He beckoned with the hand whose fingers swelled above gaudy gold rings. The cigarette wedged between first and second finger flung a long trail of hot ash onto Bond's coat. He ignored it, smiling politely, without teeth.

"Yuri," he said quietly. That's when his phone had gone off, buzzing in his inside jacket pocket against the keys to his Aston Martin.

"You're vibrating," the Russian had said.

"Indeed," he'd replied, ignoring the phone.

"You're going to want to take that," the Russian had said.

"Indeed?" he'd replied, ignoring the phone.

"You're going to want to take that," the Russian had said and something in his expression made Bond hesitate.

He'd looked at the man for a moment, eyes solemn and cold, before fetching the phone from its pocket. "Bond here."

And that's when everything changed. 

 

004\. Then  
"They're calling it an accident," M says, her mouth pressed into a thin line. 

You nod. You know what that means: she suspects it's anything but. 

"Bloody stupid name. Golden Eye. Who even names projects any more. What's wrong with MBX41116? Everything's computerized. It doesn't care." She sighs, presses a hand to her forehead. Tugs her suit jacket down even though it hasn't dared to ride up. Her piercing blue eyes catch yours, bore into your skull like she can see the gears whirling inside. 

"What is it?" you ask, holding her fierce gaze. You don't give a damn if they use code words or randomly generated sequences. It's all zeros and ones, at the end of the day. 

She grimaces but doesn't break eye contact. She never does. Just like she never minces words. "It's a virus that could be used as a chemical weapon. A supervirus."

"Christ," you swear without heat, the word spat coldly into the air.

"Quite," M replies, pursing her lips like a disapproving parent though she makes no comment, moving ruthlessly forward, all business. Always business. "One of the symptoms, I am told, is jaundice. I am guessing the name is a poorly made pun." Her expression says what she thinks of such perceived unprofessionalism. "Get to the bottom of this," she tells you curtly. "Officially, you're helping with the cover-up. Unofficially..." She gestures one hand in a weary sweep. 

"We can't be the only ones--" you start. 

"No, of course not," she says like a headmistress talking to a particularly stupid pupil who's asked an even stupider question. "The Americans. Possibly the Germans." She purses her lips, shakes her head. "There's a dossier in that folder. I've had Tanner forward more information to your phone." 

You nod. You know what's expected of you in this situation. Get there first.

"Bond," she says, halting you as you move to leave. 

"Ma'am?"

"Get it done."

"Don't I always?" you say, trying to muster your usual charm.

"Indeed." Her gaze flicks over you, a quick once over, and then she's turned her back, talking in hushed tones to the other agents gathered around her.

Her praise seems damning at best.

 

005\. Midflight  
He's never liked flying. Too much downtime. Even with the bars they provide in first class. Complimentary anything can only get one so far. He sighs, stares into the bottom of the glass cup they'll allow him but not the fingernail clipper and smirks. 

"Another, sir?" the flight attendant asks, bending at the waist over his fully reclining seat, her hand reaching for his fourth empty glass as she not-so-subtly invades his personal space.

"Sure," he says, the vodka bitter in his mouth, laced crueler with sour lemon.

 

006\. Two hours before tomorrow morning  
He lands, is picked up by the car service, taken to an anonymous government building only anonymous in its palatial scale to the buildings around it. His eyes, lazily scanning the landscape outside the heavily tinted windows, don't so much as register even a flicker of surprise. It's par for the course. It's all going to go this way: anonymous, hush hush, off the grid. It's a catastrophe that will never happen and it's his job to make damn sure of it. 

He's escorted inside by a man that could be anyone: bodyguard, doorman at a posh nightclub, gangster, mafia member, government agent, though he'd bet on the latter. The hallways are under-heated, but the room he's escorted into is overheated. He removes his coat, his fingers flicking briefly over his gun, still tucked into his suit jacket. 

He wasn't frisked. 

That's never a good omen.

The room could be a waiting room or an interrogation room or a holding cell. It's nondescript and unthreatening. Anonymous. He examines the carpet. It's industrial, easy to clean, low pile. At least it isn't lino, he thinks to himself, mouth quirking.

That's when the door open and a small, balding man comes in, his stomach leading the way. He's sweating. Bond doesn't hold it against him as the man holds out his hand, clasping Bond's in a clammy grip.

"Agent Morris," the man says in his nasal American accent. East Coast. "Good to meet you, Agent Bond."

"Likewise," Bond replies. 

"I'm here to brief you..." the man begins, laying out papers on the conference table that Bond has already seen. He's impatient; these dog and pony shows of "intelligence" never serve to intimidate him and put him in his place as he's sure they intend to. Instead, they make him fractious. He's a professional. He's a machine. He already knows his task and this showmanship functions only to waste his time and move his target further from his reach. 

He lets the man talk for another minute before ruthlessly interrupting him. "I was told I'd be working with an Agent Wade."

"Yes, yes, Agent Wade, one of our best and brightest..." Agent Morris murmurs, like they don't say that about all their agents, including the stupid ones that cause more trouble than they're worth even when confined to working in a basement at Langley. 

"He's late, isn't he?" Bond snaps, crossing his arms over his chest. 

The door opens as he utters this and a slightly disheveled-looking young American steps into the room. "Who's late?" the newcomer asks in the lazy, mellow voice of a Hollywood teen soap opera star. He has a face to match, handsomely bland. "Hey," he says, his chin jerking up habitually in a slight nod as he makes eye contact with Bond and advances towards him. "Bond? James Bond? I'm Jack Wade." 

He uncrosses his arms and a chuckle escapes his lips. "You're joking," he says flatly. 

The kid looks offended, his hand hanging out in midair for a moment before he lowers it to his side.

"No offense," Bond says, "But the ink can barely be dry on your university diploma. Are you sure this is the right agent for the job?" He glances at Morris, whose brow is visibly perspiring now. 

Wade's jaw is clenched, but he says nothing, staring stonily at Bond. 

"Yes," Morris says hesitantly. "He's extremely qualified in the field and particularly in cyberhacking and cyberdata analysis. You know, computers?" 

"Yes, I know what computers are," Bond replies coldly. "I don't see what that has to--"

"It was leaked by a hacker," Wade interrupts. "We got him. Or her. Or we're close to it. I've kinda got a tip-off." He shrugs, looks vaguely apologetic, like he doesn't relish working with Bond any more than Bond relishes working with some twenty-something blond kid from Southern California who looks like he just walked out of central casting for some new insipid teen drama imported and shown on E4. 

"Good. At least you have something." Bond checks his watch. He sees Wade eye the piece dubiously from the corner of his eye and he almost smiles, reminded of how many times a watch has saved his skin. "We should go now."

"No rush," the kid says. "These people aren't the kind who just get up and leave their computers." 

"No," Bond says slowly, "but if you found him, who else has?" 

 

007\. Later  
Bond drives. He always drives. Wade seems less interested in the car than the sat nav, the MI-6 upgrades, the rubbish that saves Bond's ass from time to time and he never thinks twice about.

"Is this a--?" he asks for the nth time and Bond grimaces, downshifts, roars up a hill.

"I don't know," he says through his teeth. He feels tired. Tired of the questions, tired of all of this even as it spikes fire in his veins. He feels old next to the agent sitting in his passenger seat. He feels old next to a lot of the agents. Not just the agents, but the type of plots he deals with these days, terribly complex and convoluted as always but contained to legal contracts, servers, files. The intangibility makes him feel itchy, but there's no place to scratch. He feels tired and old. It's disheartening. He shrugs it off. He has a job to do. "Read me the address again?"

"I can put it in the--"

"No."

"Fine." He rattles it off, in his nasal American accent. He's looking at his phone, probably Google Mapping them, for fuck's sake. What has spying become? Is this all just some big video game? He'd smile if it didn't piss him off so much. No honor, no glory. 

"Good," Bond says, "We should be there in less than an hour." He checks his watch again, pushes his foot down on the accelerator. The flight to Denmark had taken longer than he'd planned, in part due to poor planning on the American end, in part because he made a math mistake. Both grate on him as he pushes the rental car to its limit. They're winding through the Swedish countryside now. 

"What's our cover?" Wade asks, finally setting his phone down. 

Bond glances over at him, frowning slightly. "We don't have time for that. We'll just knock on the door and if she doesn't answer, break in."

"Uhm," Wade says after a long moment. "Like, uhm, that usually works for you?"

"Yes," Bond says curtly. 

"Right. Well, if it doesn't..."

"Follow my lead."

"Okay, bro."

Bond pretends he didn't hear that mumbled slang as Wade turns to look out the window at the trees and meadows flashing past. His phone makes a soft noise, the screen lighting up.

"Important?" Bond asks.

Wade shakes his head no.

"Well?"

"My ex just unfriended me on Facebook, if you really have to know. Geeze." Wade adds the last part under his breath, turning back to his phone.

"Christ," Bond swears, pushes the accelerator down further towards the floor.

 

008\. The Town  
They arrive in the smallish city two hours later than Bond wanted to arrive. He'd call it a market town if it was in England. He's not sure what they call it here. He leaves the car in a supermarket carpark. 

Wade makes as if to exit the carpark. Bond grabs the elbow of his jacket, steers him into the lino tiled, fluorescent lit shop. 

"Seriously?" the American asks softly as Bond browses the shelves, picks a few things seemingly at random: a bag of crisps, two candy bars, a bottle of water. 

"Hej," he says to the woman checker. She smiles, bags his groceries, tells him the total. Bond pays with debit, takes the offered receipt. "Tack." 

"Well that was a waste of time," Wade mutters as they exit the front of the shop onto the pavement. 

Bond has the carrier bag looped over his arm, his hands in the pocket of the wool overcoat he wears over his suit. He grunts a noncommittal reply. 

"How far are we?" he asks Wade, even though he has a vague idea of where they're going, having studied the dossier forwarded to him by Tanner on the plane. 

"Ahh," Wade pulls his phone from the pocket of his narrow, dark wash jeans. At least he isn't wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a fanny-pack, Bond thinks as he watches from the corner of his eye. "Take this down, make a left at the second crossing, then we go past a restaurant or bar--not sure--then make another left down an alley and it's a green door on the right, about halfway down."

"Excellent." Bond reaches up, the carrier bag straining on his arm, to turn up the collar of his coat. 

"They weren't lying when they said you were a cold one," Wade remarks absently. 

"I'm a professional," Bond replies.

"Right," Wade says, as if he doesn't quite agree.

Bond thinks about arguing the point, but what does this trumped up American kid really know about spying? He'd bet that it wasn't as much as the kid thought. Training and the field are two very different spheres.

The American's phone bleats a short electronic tone. He pulls it out and looks at it, his fingers moving against the screen, his eyes scanning it. "Shit," Wade says. He stops in his tracks, staring down at the phone. "Shit," he says again. 

"What?" Bond demands. Surely the American can't be losing that many friends on Twitter or Facebook or whatever today. He doesn't expect the reply that comes to be anything other than flippant and cursory.

But Wade swallows hard and looks up from his phone, meeting Bond's eyes. "He's dead." 

"What? How?" 

"Someone got there first. Fuck."

"Obviously," Bond snarls. "What's the direction?"

Wade gives him a helpless look and shrugs. They stand on the sidewalk for a minute before Wade huffs out a heavy breath, looks away and looks back to Bond. "There is another." 

"What do you mean? There was only evidence of this single hacker."

"No, there was a network of hackers. There usually is. But they all went offline suddenly."

Bond clenches his jaw and shoots Wade a baleful stare. "Why wasn't I told this? It wasn’t in the brief."

"Because no one listened to me when I told them, so it wasn't put in the report."

"There's no way they're just away from their computers?"

"These people don't leave their computers. And never all at once like this."

"Why were you ignored?" Bond asks after a moment. 

Wade shrugs before he says reluctantly, "Our cyberterrorism unit took down one of the hackers and another network recently. They attribute this group going silent to them just keeping their heads down for awhile. But I disagree."

Bond says nothing, merely squints off into the distance. After a moment, he says, "Where is this other hacker?"

"Here."

"Pardon?" Bond snarls. "Surely I misheard you. Here?"

"Here," Wade says. 

"Where? We need to be there now. Now, Wade! Hell, make it five minutes ago." 

"Jesus, keep your shirt on. I can try to guess within a few blocks..."

Bond slices a hand across the air and shakes his head. "Not good enough. I want a name and I want it now."

Wade hesitates before he nods. Bond gives him credit for this show of bravado even as it annoys him. "Ann Lund." 

"That is one of the fakest Swedish names I have ever heard," Bond mutters.

"I know a cafe she frequents." 

"Well why didn't you bloody say so sooner?"

 

009\. The Cafe  
They find the woman. She is not in the cafe. She is leaving as they enter, exotically pretty but otherwise non-descript. It takes a moment for their eyes to adjust. Bond realizes she's their quarry a beat before Wade.

They find her down the block at a cashpoint, trying to make a withdrawal. Her card has been declined. She looks frustrated, angry, and yes, perhaps, scared. She bristles when they approach her. 

"Frau Lund," Bond says softly, touching her elbow. "I think it best if you come with us."

"Why?" she snarls. 

That's when the bullet screams by and explodes in a hail of marble dust against the facade of the building.

"I assume if you wanted to kill me I'd be dead," she snaps as they bundle her into the car. 

Bond smashes his foot against the accelerator as gunfire hails down upon them. Wade returns fire, swearing as he does so.

"You would be correct," he snarls as the tires scream and they pull quickly away from the curb.

 

010\. The Hotel  
She looks tired and soft and fragile in the yellow overhead light, the strong planes of her face sagging as she exhales softly. Her dark hair stands in contrast to her pale skin. Bond is reminded of another face, another time. He shrugs his shoulders, rolls his head on his neck.

This one will make it. They will make it. This will all end well.

It will be okay. 

Alright.

Okay. 

They don't always die.

Not always.

Wade coughs and the moment is gone.

 

011\. The Woman  
She tries to kill him as soon as he enters the room. The sudden shifting of the shadows before he flips the switch to the light is his only warning.

There is no warning for the tranquilizer that eventually puts him down, a sharp pinprick in his upper arm, the needle piercing the fabric of his shirt, his suit coat abandoned on the floor. 

His last thought as he collapses to the floor is that he hopes Wade got the girl out. 

 

012\. The Villain  
The thing he's grown to learn about modern villains is that very few operate wholly in black and white. Everything has become a murky, muddle gray area. 

Machines don't understand gray well. Nothing comes between zero and one and nothing comes after. 

Bond awakens slumped onto the floor of a train. He knows it's a train because he can hear the rhythmic clatter of the wheels on the track, the soft sway of the carriages. It's a familiar enough noise, almost enough to lull his heavy eyes back closed. 

"So I see you've awoken," a man's voice murmurs. A shod foot prods his side, but not cruelly, merely an investigation of sorts. 

Bond stops breathing for a moment, holding his breath as he turns his head to one side and looks up at his captor. "You," he says.

"Me," the man agrees.

"Alex," he says, pushing himself up to sit. "We thought you were dead. We all thought you were dead."

"Good," Agent 006 says. "I wanted to be dead." 

Bond draws his brows together, frowns. It's on the tip of his tongue to ask "Why?" but he resists the urge, swallows it and lets it settle in the pit of his stomach where a bad feeling continues to grow. 

"Aren't you curious?" his old partner finally asks. He waves the gun in his hand, the gun with the silencer, around in an expansive gesture.

"No," Bond says after a moment. He does not care. The reason for 006's subterfuge is irrelevant. The betrayal stands between them, a divide never to be mended. He has become the enemy. And there is only one thing that a machine like Bond knows to do with an enemy: 

Eliminate it. 

 

013\. The End  
"Do you want to call in the body?" the American asks.

You look at the dead man, corpse mangled from the fall. 

"No," you say. "He's been dead a long time." 

"He was your friend," Wade says.

"This man was never my friend," you reply.

You adjust your ruined suit and turn away, squinting up toward the sound of helicopters that begins to fill the sky. You have done your duty. The threat is gone. Time to move onto the next.

You wish that thought was a comfort. Somehow it's not. Still, when it comes down to it, it's all just zeroes and ones. The world is saved for another day, the virus prototype eliminated and contained. 

If you were a different man, you would reflect on the magnificent pettiness of man, of the grudges he can hold, but instead you merely hold a hand up to your brow to shield your eyes and ignore your flapping clothes. You don't think about the dark haired woman you once loved or the depths you went to as you avenged her memory. You merely smile a grimace and duck down to step onto the helicopter. 

Machines never were good at analogies.

Your knees feel tired when you sit down on the hard bench. You ignore them, just as you ignore anything that doesn't fit into your narrow world view. Sore knees are a sign of triumph, not age. 

It's not a question of when you retire, but if you ever can.


End file.
